


A dream of Winter and Summer

by Sunnytyler001



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, just don't read it if you like Daenerys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-04-11 21:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19118422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnytyler001/pseuds/Sunnytyler001
Summary: To be the Queen in the North is a great honour. But also a very heavy and lonely one. After two years of waiting, and months of hard work, Sansa lives in the hope of Jon's return...





	1. Sansa I

Jon was coming home. He was!

Sansa had put all her good work to it. All those little tricks Littlefinger had taught her had come to good use now. Because Jon was coming home to her, to Winterfell.

It hadn’t been easy, really, having to deal with Yara’s anger and hatred. The girl was still deeply in love with her queen, whether she admitted it or not. Sansa felt sorry for her, as she too had once been in love with a tyrant. Little good that had done her and her family. Daenerys had been beautiful, golden, charismatic. Daenerys had promised Yara independence for her people. All lies, of course. The Targaryen queen had been there to rule over the Seven Kingdoms. Not Six and a half. She might have given Yara the position of Master of Ships, she might have even welcomed her into her bed. But freedom for the Iron Islands ? That was a dream. The same fate would have been waiting for her Dornish friends.

The Iron Born and the Dornish. Those two people were rebels at heart, what was Daenerys thinking, really ? That she could have kept them on a leash with pretty words and empty promises? Surely, after some time, the new Dornish Prince would have turned into a new version of Meria Martell, even if he was no true Martell, just a cousin of theirs. She had seen him during the council, while she was of so desperately trying to save Jon. She had been closely watching every Lord and Lady present, and the new Prince had caught her eye despite her intentions. He was very handsome, as were all those Princes and Lords who had tried to win her heart – or rather her title - with some pretty words and lies. Just as Daenerys had tried to win her trust and her friendship.

She didn’t remember the Prince’s name - Enrique? Alaric? Elaric? It didn’t matter really - only that he looked oh so calm, and too laid back for such a formal and important occasion. The fate of the Seven kingdoms was being decided, and the man was half asleep, close to yawning, and frankly didn’t seem to care at all. Was he a simpleton, thrown on the throne because he was the last and closest male relative alive? No, the Dornish wouldn’t have cared he was male. They’d had a few female leaders in the past. So why him?

Sansa, deep in her thoughts, remembered a few wily Lords who had pretended to be idiots, or lazy, but who turned out to be vicious players and astute politicians. Was the new Prince of Dorne one of those? Frankly, she didn’t care, and did not have time for this. Good for Dorne if their new leader was smart and cunning. It would mean they would be safe from harm. On the other hand, it would probably also mean more problems for Bran and Tyrion, though Sansa was sure her brother and her former Lord husband were more than able to deal with these sort of issues.

Those last few months, her main points of interest had been the North – how to ensure its prosperity and the happiness of its people - and of course, Jon. How to pardon him without creating a diplomatic incident, and how to bring him home.

But now, this was dealt with. The former Lord Commander of Daenerys’s armies and Head of the Unsullied, Grey Worm, had been reported dead from the bite of a butterfly on the Isle of Naath. Sansa couldn’t help but find this extremely poetic. Perhaps the Ser Worm had wanted to join his lover in the Lands Beyond, to be reunited with his Lady in Death?

Sansa closed her eyes and thought of all the people she had lost. Lady, her Lord Father, her Lady Mother, Robb, Rickon… even her former protector, the Hound. Wasn’t it strange how now she longed for Sandor Clegane’s inappropriate comments and cynicism? Had he survived, would he have been by her side, or would he have joined Arya on her adventures beyond the seas?

Everyone … every soul she had known, every person she had cared for, was gone. They left – whether by choice or by death - they had left her, all alone. In the halls of Winterfell, Sansa danced with her ghosts, just as Jenny of Oldstones had in Summerhall. She had always loved that song in particular, often choosing dragonflies for the embroideries on her dresses, or as her jewellery. Never had she imagined she would become so much like the tragic beauty of the tale; falling in love with a dark-haired Targaryen Prince, only to lose him and everybody else.

Of couse, Duncan had loved Jenny, and so much that he married her and losing his royal title. Had Jon ever loved her ? Not in that way, no. As a sister, as the daughter of Ned Stark, maybe. As a woman? No, that type of romantic love – the one she had yearned for when she was a girl – that he had had for his silver-haired queen. When Petyr had taunted her with jealousy, letting the green-eyed monster show its teeth to her face, speaking of marriage and alliance between the beautiful Targaryen and Jon. _Her King_.

Sansa closed her eyes and took a breath to calm her nerves. She hadn’t realized at the time how she felt about him. The fire rising inside of her everytime they had an argument, how she so desperately wanted him safe from any kind of harm, how her heart beat just a little too fast when they were close, talking in her solar or on the castle’s battlements. When she had seen them entering Winterfell, she had been torn between two extreme feelings: relief and love at the sight of Jon, a desire to never let him go, whatever happened, and on the other hand, loathing for his queen, who terrified the Northeners with her dragons and arrived in Winterfell as if it were conquered land.

« Not so fast, your Grace. The North remembers! It remembers Lyanna and Rickard, and Brandon », she thought proudly.

And then, Bran had told them. Jon was not their brother. He was their cousin. He was Aegon Targaryen. At that moment, Sansa had realized her feelings for Jon had been love all along. Romantic love. But her love was unrequited, unreciprocated.

No one would ever love her, she realized bitterly. Not in the way her Lord Father loved her Lady Mother. Joffrey had loved himself. Ser Loras had loved King Renly. And Jon, her beautifully tragic Jon, loved Daenerys.

However, when the hour of the choice struck, he had chosen honour and the North over his pretty tyrant, hadn’t he ? He had killed her after her destruction of Kings’ Landing, saving the realm from this fiery threat, as Arya had from the Ice one a few weeks earlier.

Jon was a hero. People should have been on their knees thanking him for his sacrifice. And yet they had called him a murderer, and Sansa could still remember with dread and horror the Greyjoy girl asking for his head.

No. She would never let them do that. Else, her Lord Father’s ghost would have been haunting her rooms, fixing her with a disappointed look on his stern face while she slept. Lady Lyanna might have come too, screaming and crying, asking what happened to her son, and demanding justice for him.

Her former Lord Husband, that idiotic imp, had had the silliest idea of sending him to the Wall. What Wall? What is the use of a Wall when there is no more threat and it has been half destroyed anyway by the Mad Queen’s dead dragon ? It was all ridiculous, but there was nothing she could do. She felt as if Lord Tyrion was getting rid of Jon, disposing of the real heir to the Seven kingdoms, so he could put on the throne one he’d thought he could control.

Sansa had to laugh at the idea of the small Lion trying to turn the Three-Eyed Raven into his puppet. She wished him good fortune with that task, knowing perfectly well it was impossible.

Despite everything she had done to save him, Jon had still gone to the Wall, or rather Beyond, if her information was correct. At least he was still alive. And after all her good work and nearly two years of waiting and diplomatic clashes, he was coming home.

A bit late to her taste. Those two long years without him or Arya had been more than lonely. Her coronation could have been the pinacle of her young life after so many misfortunes and heartaches. And it had been, in a way. Though she had wished so much for a familiar face around her. A friend. A family member. But no one came. Arya had taken the first ship for the West. Jon had gone on his forced exile. Theon was dead. Sandor Clegane too. Bran was king, and Brienne, by his side as the Lady commander of his Kingsguard. Of course, Sansa had been happy for her friend. Proud that her former sworn shield had been promoted to such a high position. Still, she missed the person she trusted the most. Except for Jeyne Poole, her handmaiden Shae, and Margaery Tyrell, Sansa never had many friends. Brienne had counted a lot, but she was gone now too.

Days before the ceremony, she had received word from Lord Royce, excusing himself and her cousin Robyn, as they were busy in the Vale, but he sent his daughter Myranda, a lively girl around her age, to become her Lady-in-waiting, and a few mules to help with Winterfell’s reconstruction. Lord Royce had been even been so kind as to provide an expert for these beasts, a young woman called Mya Stone. Other Lords had sent their good wishes and gifts. The one she had prefered, if she dared being honest, was the one from the Dornish Prince: three large trunks full of lemons. At the coronation, she had no friends, but at least, at her feast, she had some lemon cakes. She decided that she had deserved them after all she had been through. Now that the North was free, there was going to be a lot of hard work – but for the night, she could rest, and enjoy her lemony lemon cakes – though without her siblings to share them with, she couldn’t help but find their taste a little bitter.

But now, Jon would be home. He would be by her side, helping her rule over the North and Winterfell, eating at the Lords table, sharing her bread (and lemon cakes), giving her advise if he wished to. There was naturally the risk that the Northern Lords would prefer him to her as their leader, and eventually choose to make him their king again. Sansa’s heart winced a little at the idea, but all in all, she didn’t really care. All she wanted was Winterfell, and the people of the North safe and free, and her family home.

She had made preparations for his return. Everything had to be perfect to welcome her cousin, Lord Protector of the Free North, Jon Snow. Weeks ago, she had officially signed his pardon – the Gods knew how much she had paid and the compromises she had to accept for Yara Greyjoy and the last Daenerys supporters to accept this - but the deal had been done, and Jon was coming home.

Her heart was fluttering in her chest at the mere idea. Jon. Home. At Winterfell. Drinking soup in front of the open fire, as they had done so long ago at Castle Black. Jon in her arms, hugging her. Her, in tears, while he’d delicately and gratefully kiss her forehead.

She would then tell him her last decision: to make him a Stark. As the Queen in the North she could do that, and she would. Hadn’t he always wanted to be a Stark, and live in Winterfell? Well, he would. She didn’t dare to dream that, one day, he would love her the way she loved him, but to have him close, and safe, by her side, that would be enough.

Interrupting her thoughts, Sansa heard a light drumming on her study’s door.

« Yes, Lady Myranda ? », she asked softly.

« Pardon me, your Grace, but Prince Alaric sends his regards… and more lemons. »

Sansa couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Really, that Prince and his arrogance, trying to win his way into her bed with lemons ? That had been entertaining at first, but now it was just annoying. Though the Dornish Lord was extremely handsome, and Myranda couldn’t stop chattering about his charm, Sansa couldn’t help but doubt his intentions, and fear for another monster along the way. One that would once again take everything she had built and destroy it in front of her very eyes. Never trust a pretty face, or the honeyed lies. The Lannisters, Baelish and the rest had taught her that.

« There is something else too ! » Myranda added happily.

Sansa raised her eyebrows, as her Lady-in-waiting handed her a rolled parchment. A smile came to her face as she recognized Jon’s seal and she opened the letter… her heart stopped while reading his words.

 

«  _To the Queen in the North, Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name,_

_Your Grace,_

_I am honoured by your pardon, but I cannot accept it. I am a murderer – a kinslayer and a queenslayer._

_Moreover, my mere existence is a threat to your reign, and your brother’s._

_Peace is here. Let it stay in the North, in the Six Kingdoms- and I, beyond the Wall._

_Sincerly,_

_Jon Snow._  »

Jon was not coming home, and she was in tears.


	2. Alaric I

Alaric Sand was born under an unfortunate star, or so he thought for the first years of his life. His father had been a faraway cousin, thrice removed, to the Great Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne and wisest Lord in the Seven Kingdoms. But his father had not been so wise. He had not been a complete idiot either, enjoying his books and helping his people as well as he could. But he had had the worst defect of all : a weak heart and a generous soul. Too generous, and too gullible. The other Lords, and Sers, and conmen of all sorts, knew this and in a few decades, his poor Lord Father had been ruined.

It hadn’t helped, of course, that Daeron Martell had been drinking his way into his tomb after the early death of his lover, and Alaric’s mother, Vaella.

She had been a Septa, working for the Martells, when he had met her. For once, Oberyn had not seemed interested, though his father had told him she had the brightest smile and the most beautiful blue eyes in the Seven Kingdoms. Vaella had come from the Reach, the daughter of some lordling, vassal to the Tyrells, but when she had turnt out to be too plump for Westerosi tastes, her family had sent her away to become a Septa. Her order had come to Dorne to preach the Seven and pray in the desert lands, and soon after Doran had asked them to come to Sunspear. There, Daeron and Vaella had crossed paths, and had fallen in love. As she had been a Septa, Daeron had not been able to marry her, to his great dismay. After nearly two years of passionate love, Vaella had died, giving birth to their only son, Alaric.

Daeron had been heartbroken and had tried to appease his grief with Arbor Gold. The last of his fortune was spent on wine and some charities. His son grew, but he barely ever saw his father. At the age of ten, already very tall, he had been sent to Sunspear as a squire to Doran. The great Lord saw intelligence in his cousin’s son and decided to teach him politics as well as the art of war. At fifteen, he heard of his father’s death, and felt sorry for him, even though they had grown apart for some years.

It was some time after this that he first heard about Sansa Stark. He had been back on his father’s lands – his, now - when some merchant from the Crownlands told him about Lord Stark’s execution and the fate of his House. They had called him a traitor. How odd, when everyone knew – even in Dorne - Honour was the most important thing to the Northern Lord. Then the merchant, understanding the subject interrested him, continued with a song – as he was a singer too. He sang of Ned Stark’s fallen honour, of King Joffrey’s just decision. And then, he sang of his daughter, Lady Sansa and her sorrowful fate. How she had screamed when they had taken her Lord Father’s head. How she had begged for mercy in front of the court.

Really, this King Joffrey seemed as merciless as any Targaryen monarch. If a Lady had asked him for mercy, he would have granted it. What kind of monster gave his word to a woman, only to take it back and make her cry? A young maiden of merely eleven years old. A future queen, as she should have been, had the Gods decided to give her a more appropriate betrothed. At her description, Alaric felt every part of his being was now devoted to her cause and her protection. Had no knight sworn his sword to her by now? What was her brother doing up North, raising a rebellion when he should have been carefully trying to extract his sister before removing that dreadful brat from the Iron throne.

Since no hero had risen to save the Stark maiden, Alaric decided he would be the one. He would take a few good men, go to Kings’ Landing incognito, and save the lady before more harm came to her. Where would he take her? Well, to her family, up North, he guessed. At Winterfell, where her mother was surely sick with worry at the idea of her girl between the sharp deadly claws of the lions. But wouldn’t she be in more danger now that the North was at war with the South? Wouldn’t she be safer in Dorne, with him ? He would protect her with his life, and treat her as an honoured guest. She would be happy, he would make sure of it.

But then the Gods decided to go against his will. A terrible tempest rose and ravished his lands. For weeks, the thunder terrified the young children and the wind blew, destroying houses and crops. When the storm went away, the devastation was terrible. People had died, buildings had collapsed, forests had burnt down. Chaos reigned supreme. Even though Alaric had wanted more than anything to rescue Sansa Stark, he realized his duty was in Dorne, as his people needed his help more than ever.

The second time he had tried to go to King’s Landing was when he heard of the Battle coming. Lord Stannis Baratheon was going to attack the capital and thousands of innocents were going to die. One of them could be Lady Sansa. He had to go fetch her before some brute found her and hurt her in any kind of way. Once again he readied himself but unfortunately Lord Doran heard of his plan and stopped him before he could get his feet on his ship.

« I thought you wise, Alaric, he said with a disappointed look on his face, but mayhaps I was wrong. What if you are caught? By one party or the other? Dorne must remain neutral in this conflict. You cannot create a diplomatic incident for a woman – however pretty she might be »

Alaric had taken a breath and faced his Lord father’s cousin with determination.

« It is not about Sansa Stark’s beauty, your Highness. It’s about justice. Lady Sansa shouldn’t be in Kings’ Landing, she should be in Winterfell, with her family. Safe from harm. Hasn’t she suffered enough ? »

Doran had smile at the young man’s impassioned speech. Yes, he had been wrong about him. Alaric might have had the potential to become a wise man, but he was obviously not there yet.

« Leave Sansa Stark where she is, Cousin. She’s much safer there than up North. »

The young Lord felt his blood run cold in his veins. Something was wrong, awfully so. Seeing his young cousin’s surprise, the Master of Sunspear added : « I know things, Alaric. Things I wish I did not. »

« But know this : I believe in you, in your future. I believe you will become a man of worth, and wisdom. A valuable advisor for Trystane. Do not get stupidly killed on useless errands. »

So had talked Lord Doran Martell, and so Alaric bowed to his kinsman and obeyed.

He did regret it, though, when a few weeks later he heard of the wedding of Sansa Stark to Tyrion Lannister. A fair Lady, nearly a Queen, married to the Imp. What a jest. He felt his heart break at the idea of the Lady’s distress. But what could he do?

When the Red Viper went to Kings Landing, he wanted to follow, but knowing his feelings and desires, Lord Doran forbade it. Oberyn promised he would keep an eye on his Lady Love – but not too close, he assured. Had he come back alive, things would have been so different.

When he heard of Sansa Stark’s flight, his heart wanted to sing, but he had no more time for it. Suddenly, the Sand Snakes became the most powerful bunch in Dorne – agressive and vindicative and ruthless. Alaric had no issue with them – usually - but their hectic behaviour made him worry. He had wished to stay near Lord Doran, young Trystane and Lady Myrcella, but he thought wiser to retreat for now, rallying their forces and establishing a sanctuary, just in case Oberyn’s daughters turnt out to be as deadly and venimous as their namesakes.

They did, eventually. There was no secret they had always been sort of unstable, but to kill their Prince, his heir, and the Lannister girl? This was madness. Oberyn would have never stood for it. He wanted revenge for Elia, but mostly he wanted Dorne safe and happy and the Martell line thriving. Ellaria Sand and her daughters had just butchered it. The Martells were all gone, while Gregor Clegane and the Lannisters were still standing. Their little coup had been in Oberyn’s name, but it was dishonouring it.

So Alaric stayed in his palace, in his lands, and decided to play the fool. The laid-back, detached, uncaring for the World’s affairs, lazy fool. The Sands had always seen him as an idiot, anyway, « always in Doran’s robes », to quote Nymeria. To see him yawn and read a book during a political meeting was not really a surprise for them. They told him to go away. And so he did.

He continued his little charade, even after their death, when an envoy from Daenerys Targaryen demanded his fealty and his help for his Queen. The Stranger to those Dragons! Weren’t all of them dead? Had Rhaegar been more faithful to Elia, all those wars would have never happened. Oberyn, Doran, Trystane… they would all be alive. All of this was the Targaryen’s fault, really. Now, their lastest spawn was coming to Westeros, crying her endless list of empty titles no one really cared about, and ordered him to bend the knee?

Dorne? Bending the knee? Was this woman, queen, khaleesi, whatever she was – was she insane? Surely, for Dorne would never kneel – never again. She demanded fealty? Well, he would proclaim independence. No, he would not bow. Dorne deserved its independance, its freedom … Then again, the rumour said she had dragons. Just as Aegon and his sisters. Suddenly, he felt his blood boil and imagined himself as the new Meria Martell.

Would it be wise, though? What would have Lord Doran done? And why in the Seven Hells were they asking him, out of all the people of Dorne?

« Well, my Lord, » said the Targaryen envoy, « because you are the Prince of Dorne, are you not?»

Alaric wanted to laugh. No, he was not. He was never supposed to be a Prince. That should have been Trystane’s position. Or Quentyn’s. Or Manfrey’s. And what happened to the beautiful and cunning Lady Arianne? Had they all been murdered by the Sands?

« I am afraid everyone else is dead, your Highness. So, you see, now you’re the Prince. And fear not! Our gracious Queen has already released a decree making you a true-born Martell, and the rightfull Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear! »

The new Prince of Dorne did not like this at all. Looking at the envoy smug smile, he wanted to grab him by the collar and make him fly into the lemon trees. The man had the arrogance to believe he should have been grateful for his Queen’s decree. Alaric could not have cared less about being a bastard and never had he wanted to become the Lord of Sunspear. He would have given his life in exchange of Doran’s. But there was no magic able to grant him his wish. He would have to play his part in the game, and become as good a politician as his cousin had been. Wiser even, if he didn’t want the Targaryen tyrant to burn and destroy the whole of Dorne on a whim.

When Yara Greyjoy had come knocking to his door, he put on his mask of stupidity and laziness once again, for the good of his people. Daenerys Targaryen had been killed by her lover – good man really, what a splendid idea, he was sure Meria Martell and the rest of his forefathers were cheering for him from beyond the grave - but her supporters were still numerous and just as dangerous.

Then when he arrived at the Dragon Pit, he saw her. Tall, her red hair lightly braided as a shieldmaiden, and her icy blue eyes watching every one of them closely. Probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The moment he laid eyes on her he knew who she was: the girl he had so desperatly wanted to save, Sansa Stark. Well, obviously, she had saved herself, and had thrived wonderfully. Lady of Winterfell. And now, she was demanding independence for her people, for the North. He had been right to admire her all those years ago. What a wonderful young woman, and what a queen she would make. Alaric tried to hide his smile, and not to look at her too much. He had to hold his cards close to his heart. If he played them well, he might gain the best ally for Dorne and maybe win her to the cause of his own people’s independence.


	3. Alayne

Once again, her hair was black. Once again, she was on the road.

Sansa had chosen to remain anonymous while travelling to Dorne. Had people known who she was, there might have been danger all around. Danger was still there, but at least no fool would have in mind to murder the Queen in the North or Sansa Stark. Daenerys still had supporters, and incredibly so, so did Cersei. Some might have wanted her dead for being their Queen’s enemy or rival.

Being dead would not be so bad, though, Sansa thought bitterly. She would be with her family, with Lady. Sandor might even be waiting for her, to protect her as he promised, but beyond the grave this time. He’d bring her to her Lord father and Lady mother, and all of them would be oh so happy.

But Sansa lived, and had enough responsibilities to keep her busy. She was the Queen in the North now, and people were expecting her to help and care for them. People of the North, of course, but also people from the South, as she discovered. It was no surprise, though. She knew this was coming the moment Prince ‘What’s his name again?’ Martell started looking at her with interest at the Dragon Pit and went to all the trouble sending her trunks of lemons and other shiny little gifts. He was not courting her for her beauty, Sansa knew already. He wanted her help making Dorne an independent kingdom, just as she had done with the North. Of course, this didn’t stop him from writing some very gallant letters that would have made her younger self swoon and dream of a charming prince serenading her at night under the lemon trees.

The Sansa who would have hoped for this kind of foolishness was dead and gone for a long time, thank the Seven, so the Queen in the North could concentrate on more important business. Would she help the new Prince? Well, why not? On the condition, of course, that he would help her in return. The North had been badly hurt by all the wars it had endured, just as she had. The little food they had, had been consumed by the armies and dragons. This was all a pity, and Sansa fumed at a ghost version of Jon, sending him to all the Hells, even if she knew her cousin had not been totally wrong. They had needed those soldiers, and those thrice damned beasts. But now, the North was even poorer and needed food. Dorne would help them in the matter, as winter had not been as harsh in the Southern lands. They could establish trades – northern wood was after all still quite famous and sought for in all of Westeros. Besides, the North, as a newly established independent kingdom, would probably benefit from a powerful ally. The more Sansa thought about it, the more it became clear an alliance with Dorne was exactly what they needed, if the Northerners wanted to hold their heads high through the Winter and be considered as a powerful country that commanded respect. Yes, this would be the price of their survival, their safety, but also of their potential prosperity. Sansa didn’t dream of romance anymore, but she hoped for happy citizens – lords and peasants alike - and for a brilliant court where artists, poets, and musicians from all over the seven kingdoms would meet and find new ways to practice their arts. She wanted paintings and new tapestries in every room, singers singing of the great battles they had just lived. She wanted to hear the tales of her sister, the maiden of had defeated the Night King and great explorer of the Unknown seas. She just hoped she would never have to hear songs about the “great and tragical love story” between Jon and his Queen. The mummer who dared would be thrown out of Winterfell without a single coin.

Sansa sighed. Jon always came to her thoughts. She knew she should not. She felt as if a chapter of her life had been closed. Her youth was gone, and it had taken with it her siblings. She still hoped for Arya’s return, one day, once she had explored and seen all the lands she desired. Or maybe she would directly go to the Stormlands, where Lord Gendry was still waiting for her. Jon, on the other hand, had been very clear. Sansa’s heart bled every time she remembered his cold answer to all her good work. Yes, she had pardoned him, but no, he would not come back to Winterfell. All of this had been in vain. Her humiliating herself to Yara Greyjoy, negotiating for months with Lord Tyrion – all for nothing in the end. There was no point in regretting all she had done, or what could have been. Really, she was the person to blame: she had dared to dream once again. And what had happened? She had been hurt again. Sansa made a promise to herself not to ever dream again or base her hopes on another person – mostly if that person was a man. Even someone as good and loyal as Jon. They all turned out to be untrustworthy the moment a pretty face walked into the room or flew on the back of a dragon. At least, with the Dornish Prince, she knew what to expect. A bit of flirtation, as was custom in his lands, but nothing more. No feelings involved, just pure politics. Sansa was nearly grateful for this.

“What? Only flirtation? But that would be so disappointing, dear Alayne!” Myranda Royce pouted. “I sincerely hope that Prince carries you to his rooms and ravishes you for a night of forbidden pleasures.”

Sansa felt her blood run cold in her veins at the idea of being “carried” to a man’s rooms or being “ravished” by him. Frankly, she did not like it at all. Ramsey had seen to that. From her experience, the “pleasures” Myranda loved to rant about so often were no pleasure at all and included insufferable pain and humiliation. If a man dared to lay a finger on her, she would scream. Prince or not. Or better: she would tear off his finger with her bare teeth. She was a wolf after all. People seemed to forget it too easily. Besides, she could not let herself be seduced and act irresponsibly. How would her Lords react if they heard she behaved like a whore, sleeping in some Dornish Prince’s bed? Surely, they would take her crown the moment the news reached Winterfell. They would say she was exactly as her brothers, falling in love with a foreigner, and giving the North away on a whim. No, she would not be that person. This would mean the end of the Starks. The Lords would definitely lose their trust in their family and would seek out a new line as their leaders. This would not happen.

On the other hand, was the question of heirs. Already, the Northern Lords had been discussing it vehemently, pressing her to pick one of them as her husband. Sansa could not stand it or the idea of one of them in her bed. Most of the young men had been killed during the wars – whether they were Robb’s or Jon’s. What was left were old men with rough hands or little boys. She fancied neither and, in truth, was not ready for another loveless marriage. She would do her duty, of course, but to live through another trauma so soon was asking too much of her. Lord Royce hoped not so secretly she would marry Little Robyn. He had already written on the matter several times since the Dragon pit meeting, pleading for his protegee’s cause and enumerating the advantages to such a union. He would also add how handsome the young man had become, and Sansa agreed. Robyn had become comely, but stayed the little boy attached to his mother in her mind. He was also rather dull, as Myranda pointed out several times, and was far from an astute ruler. Lord Royce probably hoped she would rule the Vale and the North alike. Sansa felt her eyes roll to the Seven Heavens at the mere idea. The North was already difficult enough to rule. She did not need another kingdom. How anyone would want and enjoy ruling seven, she had no idea. Mad people, probably, or with magical powers, such as Bran’s.

Myranda had been supposed to plead Robyn’s cause too, but she never had, preferring instead to read her Lord father’s letters with a knowing laugh, and comparing Sansa’s cousin, slightly dim and slow, to the Dornish Prince, whose numerous gifts made him a more amorous suitor in her Lady-in-waiting’s wild imagination.  Had Myranda been paid by Dorne to be so much in favour of the Prince? Sansa did not know, nor did she care. Neither of them interested her. In a perfect world, Jon would have fallen in love with her, and not with Daenerys. He would have still been king, and she would have been his queen and consort. The heir issue wouldn’t have been a problem, and they would have been happy, she would have made sure of it. But in real life, things never happened the way you expected them to do. Jon was gone, forever, he did not wish to be by her side – in any way - and did not love her back. You could not force a feeling as powerful as love. Many tried to and were burnt by it in the end. She still hoped he would find happiness, eventually. A lovely wildling girl, as the one who had died in his arms, and Tormund had told her about. Ygritte, wasn’t it? She might give him children. There was a happy solution. Sansa would rule, and after her death, Jon’s children would take the throne. This seemed fair, even if her heart bled a little. Jon had sworn twice the Night Watch’s vows, but she would probably be the one respecting them. How ironic that the girl who dreamt of romance and children would end up an old maid? Two parts were at war in her mind – Sansa, the foolish girl who dared to dream and still wanted to be loved and have babes of her own, and the Queen in the North, who knew very well this would not happen, who could not stand the idea of a man’s touch, who could not dream to trust a man after all that had happened to her, and tried to have reasonable solutions to all of this.

Still, in her slumber, her mind wandered those dangerous paths. Sons with the names of Robb, Eddard, Rickon, Jon … Daughters named after her sister Arya, after her aunt Lyanna, after her Lady mother Catelyn …. At the back of her mind, a whisper that sounded very much like Myranda, breathed into her ear “Catalina”, the Dornish equivalent to Catelyn, seemed even prettier.

Foolishness, all of it. Stupid dreams from a stupid girl, that would never come true.

Suddenly, Sansa was distracted in her thoughts by Myranda’s grumbling.

“Frankly, your Grace, did we really have to travel as simple merchants? This is so uncomfortable! How can you accept this? When I think of Alys Karstark, in your coach, treated as a queen! This is a disgrace!”

Sansa smiled politely to her Lady, while trying to keep her calm. Yes, it was uncomfortable, but it was safer.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lady Myranda. You must be jesting, surely! There is no Grace here, just me, Alayne, bastard of the Vale. This is perfectly suitable for a baseborn lady of my modest condition.”

Lord Royce’s daughter gave Alayne a quick laugh and nodded.

“Fine, Alayne, I was forgetting our little role play.” Then she played with her hair a little, before smirking knowingly.

“I’m sure your Dornish suitor will quite enjoy it. They say he was a bastard too, you know. Two bastards together, both of them young, and comely…”

“Huh” Sansa replied a bit too quickly “And how do you know he’s comely?”

For all that mattered, Sansa did not care about the Prince’s handsomeness. Joffrey had looked very nice on the outside but had been pure poison in the inside. She would not fall again for an enticing appearance hiding the worst nature in the world.

Myranda chuckled and her eyes began to sparkle. Her imagination was once again running wild. It was a good thing they never met before she had left Winterfell. That girl would have had the worst influence on her younger self - not that she had needed any.

“Well, his letters of course. The tone he uses when writing to you. His calligraphy, also!”

“His calligraphy?” Sansa asked puzzled.

“Yes! Some of my lovers had a bad calligraphy, and those were terrible in bed! Believe my experience: a man who writes well is a good lover! And handsome with that! And those gifts he sent you? A man of taste! Besides, you met him at the Dragon Pit, have you not? So, how was he?”

Sansa was nearly tempted to stop the coach on the instant, go out and ask Ser Lothor, who was their escort for the journey, his opinion on the subject. Still she did not. She was tired at her friend’s silly arguments, but the road was long, so she played along. How was the Prince? Frankly, she had not paid him much attention, too taken by her mission to save Jon, and later to insure the North’s independence.

“He was … tall”

“Tall?” parroted her Lady-in-waiting. “That’s not much… What was the color of his eyes? What was he wearing?”

“Something gold, I guess? I don’t know. He told me his name too, when he introduced himself. But I keep forgetting it.”

“His name is Alaric Martell. Come on, Alayne, the man wrote to you dozens of times, you should know it by now! Unless of course you’re forgetting it on purpose?”

Sansa lifted her eyebrows in surprise. What kind of idea was that? Why would she forget a potential ally’s name on purpose? That was ridiculous. She was the monarch of an independent country; she had no time to lose on such shallow matters.

“Why would I do that?”

“So you don’t have to think about him…. Or his tallness.”

Ridiculous. All of it was ridiculous. The truth was she had been tired and had had a lot to deal with. The Prince and Dorne had not been on her list of priorities, but she promised herself she would not forget his name this time. If not, just to shut Myranda’s mouth on the subject.

The journey lasted nearly three moons, and even though Myranda’s company had been more annoying than entertaining, they finally reached Dorne after crossing the Narrow Sea. Sansa tried not to remember her last trip on a boat – too many ghosts would send her to the bottom of the sea.

Still under her disguise, Sansa walked through the streets of Sunspear and marveled at their liveliness. The merchants from all over the world were crying their last promotions, music was being played in some narrow streets, and the smell of spices was enticing. She closed her eyes a moment, enjoying the feel of the Dornish sun on her skin. She had longed for Winterfell and its walls of snow, true, but the South also had its benefits – while not being ruled by some tyrant.

The people seemed happy. Sansa had been worried Alaric Martell would only show her a happy Dorne and hide the poverty and misery of his subjects. Another reason that had pushed her to come to his lands under the identity of Alayne. But, from what she could see, everything seemed fine. Of course, there were some beggars, but not as many as in King’s Landing. Everyone seemed to have a trade and well fed, with a content smile on their faces.

“That’s the effect of the Sun and the Dornish wine, my Lady” retorted Ser Lorthor, while gulping some Arbor gold. He reminded her so much of Sandor in those moments her heart was close to tears once again.

Her ears were suddenly taken with a lovely tune. She stopped in front of the singer, where a group of joyous people were already listening to him.

“What is his song about?” asked Myranda to a passerby.

“It’s about our Good Prince, m’lady. And the Red Queen who will give us freedom at last!”

“Freedom to Dorne!” the crowd repeated in a chorus.

“And long live our Prince and the Queen in the North!” one little girl with braided hair added.

Sansa looked around in wonder and wanted to laugh. Those people had never met her and they seemed to love her? She had never seen such a sight. Surely this was a trap, even though her heart wanted to believe it. This made her want to deserve those praises and this love. She would not disappoint them, if she could.

Suddenly, some whispers were heard higher in the street. Some women were wailing and screaming in despair. What had happened? Sansa looked at her companions, and all three decided to investigate the matter.

“How tragic! How unfortunate!”

“What’s going on?” grunted Lothor Brune “Tell me, woman!”

The poor girl her sworn shield had quite rudely accosted kept crying. “Oh, m’lord, it’s terrible. All our hopes of independence! Gone! Never our Prince will succeed without the Red Queen’s help!”

Sansa frowned. What was this jest? Who had suddenly decided she would not help the Dornish? Then, suddenly, she realized with horror what had happened.

“The Queen in the North” the woman wailed. “They murdered her! She’s dead!”


End file.
